The world is swaying in a white embrace of winter this morning. Strange how a storm can seem so calm. I imagine that is what the great poet-magicians of Old were like - for instance, Gwydion, Math - tranquil in their self-assurance even as they upended the world.
Days like this, I want to run away to the countryside where I can sit wrapped up in some old house, writing, drinking tea, reading by candlelight, while winter has his way with the hills. Mind you, it's all writing, drinking tea, reading, here where I am now too. But I do wish for hills.
Only sometimes though, and only if I'm taken there, then brought back again. I really have no inclination to be a hardy woman. I like a village nearby, and little roads through the hedgerows (not that we have hedgerows here). I like chimney smoke from other houses, and people to meet along the way. I wasn't always so - I had my half-empty house in the forest in the hill-roots. I did the wild thing. But I've come to value comfort. Truth is, I'm more Anne Blythe than Cathy Earnshaw, and unapologetically so. Always was, just didn't know it until I learned in my twenties that I could be. Before that, I hadn't read the book, so didn't know Anne was possible. I had always been surrounded by hardy women.
What I wish for girls is that they are surrounded by a diversity of literature so, no matter where they live or what other women choose to be, they can find mentors, examples, kindred spirits to inspire them in finding their own selves. Modern offerings follow character trends, so thank goodness for the old books, for LM Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott, for those girls who don't want to be fiesty or furious. Or even for the girls who do, but who need to learn that whatever other girls want to be for themselves is okay too.
(Including being a poet-magician, since it's not right that only the boys should have the fun.)